Sunday, October 09, 2005

How does the miasma inside the head work? Does it convert life into small fragments to assemble at will, allowing us to maintain equal internal and external pressure? Does it maintain the illusion and transparency of beauty while masking the certainty of destruction? Does it bounce us around at will and yet make believe about the ultimate possibility that will make light of all sorrow, here and henceforth? Or like the wind that blows the bubble that I allude at the end of line 2, starting with ‘does’ everything that I want to know waiting outside where I need to go play?